


the half i see

by thraume (ethia)



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: 2nd person POV, And those eyes, But that voice, Episode Tag, F/M, Gabriel Lorca is a seducer, He's also a right old bastard, Missing Scene, PWP, Smut, character sketch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 13:54:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12459156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ethia/pseuds/thraume
Summary: Missing scene and episode tag for Choose Your Pain.Seven months, and you're quite sure no one's come this close to touching her. A pariah among her peers, shut away under that immaculate Vulcan veneer, a safe distance going both ways. But human underneath. Very much so.Not untouchable at all.You wonder if she hates it.





	the half i see

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from _Half Light_ by Banners.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Nothing here is mine. Now go have fun.

“Are you fucking her, too? Your mutineer?" There's no bitterness in Cornwell's voice, no accusation. Perhaps a trace of worry over a potential point of concern.

“No.” You stretch in a post-coital bore, lazily throwing an arm over your eyes. Added darkness to complete your bliss. “Not yet.”

Just to be clear that the decision is yours to make, and any opinion on the matter unwelcome. You haven't actually sought Burnham out, not really, anyway, for lack of time if nothing else. Opportunity hasn't presented itself.

 _Yet_. And there it is, one syllable ripe with ideas and promise, utterly alluring. What you could do, what you will have - you grunt with surprise at a fresh spike of lust, short-lived but sharp and vibrant even in your sated state.

Katrina scoffs, the huff clearly audible from within the ensuite bathroom. If this were _Discovery_ , you might let yourself drift off for a while now, sleep off the haze, but it's not, and Katrina, from the sound of it, is already busy putting her clothes back on.

Which probably means that the pleasantries are over with and you're back to business.

All clean and dressed up, you're still busy weighing the odds of leaving without that piece of advice Cornwell must have stored up for you, when her hand on your arm stops you in the doorway.

Pretty much nil, then. It takes some force to bite back your ire.

“Gabriel.” Not a common occurrence, now, having someone call you that. Most of everyone who had earned the right gone in a crippling flash of light. A lace of pain in every single thing you see.

Always.

Except in your dreams, but those are something entirely of their own. Best left alone, especially in broad daylight.

“Hm.”

“Just you watch out for yourself, okay?” She's mild with you, mellowed by your touch, or so you like to think.

You brush her hand off, careful to do so politely, the better to put your words in bitter contrast. “Always, Admiral. I'd just hate to be blindsided again.”

Her sigh is mostly lost on you as you walk back to your shuttle, your temple stirring with the beginnings of a headache.

Well, fuck that.

//

Scarce lighting has never come as more of a blessing, the deep, reaching shadows of your quarters more relieving than any shot Culber could have offered. Morning's still a long way off, but sleep holds little interest to you now; you'll make do with the short nap you took after your shower, when your body refused to do anything but crash, exhaustion bringing you a half hour of dreamless rest, unshaven and trembling with the remaining moisture on your skin still drying off.

You rise with heavy limbs, unsure what to do with yourself, your skin tight and itching with tension, your mind crawling with memory. Habit makes you slip your pajama pants on, still lying disregarded where you left them a few days ago.

Before you almost didn't return.

The hail at your door comes as a welcome distraction, albeit an unexpected one. No one's had cause to come and see you here in quite a while.

Certainly not since Landry's unfortunate passing. One more death to chalk up on your personal slate. The thought stings, more than you should have let it, and you shake it off with an angry jerk of your head.

“Come.”

Propped against the edge of your desk, your fingers drumming out a languid rhythm, you wait for your surprise guest to reveal themselves.

 _Oh_. And if it isn't opportunity walking right through your door.

Mindful of your eyes, Burnham's kept the lighting in the corridor at a minimum, but looking at her silhouette in the doorway still makes you wince.

Damn that Klingon bitch.

“Captain.” Full on formal, complete with a little dip of her head, her greeting makes you smile all the same as the door closes behind her, drowning out all excess light. Putting her at a disadvantage, if only for a little while.

Isn't that something.

“Burnham. What brings you here that couldn't wait until morning? Something bothering you?”

“I came to apologize.”

Even with the lights this low, she seems unsure where to put her eyes, perhaps only now aware of the lateness of the hour, and your subsequent state of dress. _Well_.

The smile you give is nothing but friendly encouragement for her to go on, your amusement at her badly hidden fluster kept for your private enjoyment.

“C'mon. Might as well get it off your chest now.”

“I... am disturbing you.”

“Never mind. Let's hear you out.”

“About the Tardigrade-”

“I know.”

“I couldn't let it-”

“I said, I know.“ You wave her apology aside, seeing no need for it. The first reports to Starfleet won't go out until morning, the fallout of losing the creature postponed for a few hours. Not that it matters too much, with a viable workaround already in place. “You did well, Michael.”

Your praise is falling on parched grounds, soaked up eagerly. Not much of that going round for her lately. You make a note of her reaction, and the small ring of pleasure it's given you.

“Anything else?”

She's staring, eyes fixed on the barely healed split on your lip, then roving over the landscape of bruises mapped on your skin, clearly discernible now that her sight's fully adapted to the lack of light. You watch her think, grappling for an understanding of you. Always the explorer.

“Why didn't you let Culber get you fixed?” No _sir_ forthcoming, but you let it slip, here and now in the dark, where rank seems inconsequential. Her frown is clear-cut and sharp, her mouth pressed into a pensive line. Easily pried open with a lick of your tongue along the soft, supple curve of her lips, but that's for later, once she's made up her mind. Not long now, and tonight, you have that much patience left.

“Can't hurt to remind everyone that we _are_ at war, don't you think. That none of us are safe. Untouchable. Even a minor mistake instantly punished.”

“Now who's bent on self-persecution.” Her voice may be soft, but that doesn't keep her words from cutting right to the heart of the matter. She can't even guess at how right she is. Or maybe she can, her face a study of focus and intent.

It's just a few steps until you're in front of her, and one more to insinuate yourself into what she must consider her personal space. No such thing with you tonight.

This time, she doesn't budge.

“Why are you here, Michael?”

It's of little consequence to you, really, as long as you get what you want out of it. A mere matter of curiosity, a question to be worried at or left alone at your leisure. And maybe filed away for future use.

“I'm... agitated.” You watch her swallow as you wait for her to dance around the issue, tracing the long, fragile line of her neck with your eyes. So very touchable, indeed. “Tired of being useless.”

“And you came to me looking for... what? A distraction?” You're even more hungry for her than you thought, your voice and gaze growing heavy with lust. “Another way for me to put you to use?”

Cruder than she expected, but it cracks her calm facade open just fine.

“That's what you initially offered, isn't it.” Nigh on belligerent, the angle of her chin resolute and proud. The wait's even more delicious than you could have imagined, quite enough to get you hard all nice and slow.

“This isn't exactly what I had in mind.” Not back then, anyway. Now, it serves perfectly well.

“But you do now.” Her voice is low, almost a whisper, but strong with conviction. “I'm not a pressure vent.”

Enough with the dancing, then.

“Oh, but I wouldn't have you be. Not unless you wanted to. Do you, Michael?”

She bites her lip like she must chew on the thought, the plump flesh of her mouth distracting you to the point where you almost miss her nod, a small dip of her head to signal her assent. Almost there, now.

All things considered, you're probably not the most illogical choice for her to make. Safer than most, though every single soul on board would likely beg to differ.

And don't you make a pair. The not quite Vulcan, trapped in a constant struggle with emotion, and the war-hardened veteran, who has no need for it.

“This won't affect your work aboard this ship, if that's what you're so concerned about.”

“I don't trust you.” Her honesty is something you can admire. You give a raw little laugh as you circle her, eyes on the delicate curve of her neck. Practically inviting you to sink your teeth there, make her moan under the insistent heat of your mouth.

“Perhaps I'm not quite as dangerous as you're making me out to be.”

“You're a distraction.”

And here they are, full circle, her logic complete.

“Isn't that what you came looking for?”

You're just about done waiting.

She shivers, the faintest, most delicious brush of her body against you, her heat mingling with yours. “Yes.”

“Well, come here, then,” you murmur, though she couldn't come any closer if she wanted to, your bodies no more than a breath apart.

But she does lean in, a bare hint of motion, her back flush with your chest and finally, you can let yourself touch her.

Light and cautious at first, just the tips of your fingers grazing the fabric of her jacket, your mouth tracing the entire length of her neck, barely even making contact.

It's killing you, to show such restraint when all you can think of is _having_ her, washing over her with all the force of your need. But there's something in the slowness of it all that makes you ache, makes you strain for prolonged pleasure, a fuller release.

You let her come to you for that first kiss, wait for her to turn in your arms, the press of her lips too light, too gentle, drawing you toward her, and you follow, oh, how you do. You lap at the edges of her smile, swallow her gasp, and then her mouth is searing you, inside and out, and you're burning, your whole body alive with fire and heat.

Her clothes don't present more than a brief nuisance to you once you finally have her on your bed, even though there's too many, and now she's the impatient one. Each of your touches results in a shiver or a moan, like her skin's just been waiting for the careful brush of your fingers, the lush, lazy drawl of your mouth. It's delirious, and you're drunk on her so fast that it makes you dizzy, high on your lust for her.

Seven months, and you're quite sure no one's come this close to touching her. A pariah among her peers, shut away under that immaculate Vulcan veneer, a safe distance going both ways. But human underneath. Very much so.

Not untouchable at all.

You wonder if she hates it.

What she doesn't hate is the way you're hovering over her now, breathing hard, awash in her scent, sharp and heavy with her arousal. Or your mouth on her, the languid press of your tongue, the slight drag of your stubble on her thighs as she keeps you trapped, her willing servant.

You watch her come apart under nothing but the light brush of your fingers, while you drag your lips along the crease of her thigh, licking at the sheen of sweat on her dark skin, the salt-taste full and heavy in your mouth.

Her body sated, her eyes slip shut, her face soft with completion, and you rise over her, eager to be close again. An image of her on her hands and knees makes your dick twitch hard, you're so greedy for it. _Next time_. You're too far gone as it is already, desperate to sink into her heat and sear away the tension that threatens to pull you apart.

The intensity of her embrace makes you gasp, her mouth agile under yours, and you make yourself last long enough to find an angle that serves you both. Her fingers dig into your back, catching a bruise every so often, but you're blind to the pain, reduced to pleasure and want.

And there's so much of it, too much to contain, and it builds, and tightens around you, an insistent throb, thick and rich like a heartbeat, and it pulls at you, and pulls, and pulls you apart, one piece at a time, nothing but glorious, blessed release in its wake.

You're content for a moment to drape yourself over her, a pleasant weight to keep her grounded, her arm around your waist encouraging you to stay.

“Do you want me to leave?” she whispers, the way her fingers comb through the short hair at the nape of your neck too much to bear. Too intimate, too close, but you allow her to continue, a stirring of hunger still deep inside of you, untouched by the bone-deep satiation weighing you down.

You press a kiss to her ear, humming under the slow rub of her fingers in your hair.

“Not yet.”

//

War is a thief.

Stealing your time, your rest, your every nerve, leaving you wrecked, on edge. Untethered.

You come awake slowly, heavy with sleep.

She's unaware next to you, a dark shape flowing across the sheets, carved out delicately from the shadows surrounding you. Such a young face, when it's not infused by the spirit that you so admire. You're half tempted to wake her, have her be on her way, with the promise of a purpose, a fresh use.

You should.

But you don't.

Her body is warm where it touches you, her skin soft. She gives a small sigh when you pull her close, one arm carefully draped around her. You're painfully aware of how possessive that is, even if it will only last until morning.

She's everything you could want.

A luxury you haven't allowed yourself in a long time.

You know better.

War is a thief.


End file.
